


Like One of Your French Girls

by LaSordide



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Art, M/M, POV Second Person, Romance, Smut, Vignette, dirtbaggery, zombie porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaSordide/pseuds/LaSordide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kieren likes to draw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The drag of Conté against 64 pound laid paper, how you’ve missed it.

Took you a bit. There was such apprehension in first picking up the chalks again. Not so easy with the physical restrictions of impaired sensation in your hands, let alone the psychological frustration of a life interrupted, obstructed, (ended), (resurrected). The arc that would have taken you to Paris, or at least to art school in Lancaster, looms above you constantly, permanently suspended in mid-air.

Your sets of pencils, crayons, colors and sheets of paper gathered dust on your desk, and that was - just fucking _sad_ , really. Like those things were less simple utensils and more an extension of you, your first life, life itself. That denying them use was somehow akin to denying yourself existence.

Christ, those first few weeks home were terrifying. No comfort to be found in your old sources of consolation, no means of making sense of things the way you once could. Just a bug in amber. No exit.

But it’s rather like breathing to you, or it should be. _Was_.

Might be again, given your subject matter.

So far you’ve sketched him in bistre, sanguine, _en grisaille_ , lovingly dragging the graphite or pastel, brushing the ink, over delicate contours of muscle and bone. Penciled in the fine lines around his light eyes in hard black, the inky pitch of his hair in 7B. Dragged an eraser experimentally through a stark line of antinomy to depict the ruin of his poor back, the exposed bone picked out in white.

You started first from memory. Hazily recreated his heavy stance, the slope of his broad shoulders, the arc of one of his rare smiles; imagined a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. Later you began to sketch worlds into being from a single photograph: a tenebrous digital image that must have been taken by Amy of him on the sofa in the living room of her bungalow, reading. His eyes shyly turned toward the camera’s lens.

But it was months before you first had the temerity to ask him to sit for you in person.

Now you grab a tortillon to smudge lines into the shadow of an underarm, the back of a knee, the groin, Simon taking on flesh under your fingertips. Highlights fall from the light of your dimmed bedside lamp onto a cheekbone, shoulder, tucked-up knee, rump. You finish the picture with mid tones in _trois crayons,_ his pallid skin evolving on the page with perhaps more white than usual, but – nonetheless lifelike, vivid. Beautiful and familiar.

Nearly done, now. A few minor adjustments with regard to tone in some places, nothing more.

Nothing to it, right? Easy as pie, just putting marks to paper, your model present and half prone on your bed, apparently content simply to gaze back at you as you work.

Simon shifts minutely against the cotton of your sheets. You think at first maybe he’s just getting tired of holding his position, but you look at his face again, and – no.

He stares at you openly, no expression but intensity in his eyes as he slides fully onto his front, arches his rear in the air.

You gently drop the crayon and the paper to the floor because: yeah, you’re good at art. But there’s something else you’re quite passable at making, too.

 


	2. Chapter 2

His arse is perfect, pearl white and unblemished in the light of your room.

 

The first thing you do is put your hands on it, kneading it, smearing a combination of red and black chalk on his pale skin. Simon groans in response, heady and wild. You think of your parents in the other room – yes, you’re an adult, but no one wants to hear their children fuck – so you give him some fingers to suck on. He takes them greedily, a happy little moan emanating from deep in his throat, while your other hand explores his backside.

 

The first few times both the art and the sex took place with a t-shirt on that Simon refused to remove. There’s been a sudden arc of change recently, though, and you can feel how much you’ve grown to trust one another over the past few weeks. Simon lost the shirt around the same time you lost your fear of loving him so deeply.

 

This, you’ve found, it what works best for both of you: Simon, inveterate bottom that he is, on his front, stretched out and waiting to be touched by you. And you, relative novice that you still are, being allowed to figure out what feels right at your own pace.

 

He’s fucking _tight_. You send a little prayer up to a god you’ve long since stopped believing in every time you touch him here for the sensation you’ve both regained in the past several months. When sex became feasible again you both went a little mad with the possibilities.

 

You struggle to unbuckle your belt and unzip your trousers. A little surprised _ha!_ escapes his mouth, still puckered around your fingers, the moment your body makes contact with his.

 

“Shhh, shhhh, shhhhh, shhh,” you whisper against his ear as you slide your cock between his cheeks, over his hole. You pop your fingers out of his mouth when you think you can trust him to keep it down, then fumble in the bedside drawer for the lubricant. Simon buries his face in your pillow and _hums_ when you slick him up.

 

You always feel like you should be readying him a bit more, but Simon’s constant whispered litany of _fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme_ into the pillow makes that close to impossible. It’s enough. You line up and slide your body into his.

 

God, that’s sweet. You pull his hips up to meet yours, fold your arms around his chest, drape yourself over him, completely covering him, your front pressed against his back as close as you can get. Simon turns his head on the pillow so the right side of his face is visible and you start to thrust into him the moment you can latch your teeth onto his ear lobe, his neck. He clamps his eyes shut and drops his jaw open a bit with every one of your pushes inside him, looking for all the world like he wants to cry out.

 

 _I need to get a place of my own_ , you think, a little crazily. Fucking at Amy’s is just weird, but missing out on the noise Simon makes during sex is complete and utter bullshit. The two times you slept with him at the bungalow a veritable stream of the hottest pornography you’d heard since that time you found a copy of _Delta of Venus_ behind the bike sheds at school flowed from his lips. He’s a talker, your man, and you don’t want to miss a word.

 

You can feel he’s almost there – it’s like his insides tighten up and swell, he gets more demanding in his backwards thrusts to meet yours, holds his back rigid so your every shove into him is as deep as it can be. _So_ lovely. You bring your slicked hand down to his erection, let him fuck it as you pound into him, and push your tongue into his mouth to silence him he moment he starts to come.

 

It would be an amazing thing to be able to just sit back and _watch,_ let alone actually feel as it happens: Simon Monroe, king of the full-body climax. Simon’s orgasms always seem like they take forever when he bottoms. You’ve been training yourself since you first saw the pattern to wait them out, wait till they’re completely finished before you let yourself come.

 

He starts to settle, boneless and sated when he’s done, his arse no longer canted up in the air but resting on his splayed legs when you put your lips to the shell of his ear and whisper _I love you_.

 

Simon grabs you by the back of the neck, contorts until he can kiss you and tells you, “Then come for me.”

 

And that’s it, that all it takes. The pulsing sensation of emptying a grand total of a teaspoon of seed into Simon somehow equivalent to handing your heart over to him. You bury your face in his neck and try to make it as quiet as possible, try not to let the headboard of your bed slam into the wall on those final thrusts into him.

 

You lay atop him until you feel yourself slip out of him, then slide off to the side and pull him with you. He looks positively stoned on hormones, his eyes half-lidded, hair everywhere, semen spattered on his belly, a stupid smile on his face. You can’t help but chuckle a little.

 

“This is a good look on you,” you tell him gently.

 

Simon raises his brows at you and says, “Yeah? You should draw it someday.”

 


End file.
